A Promise in Lilies
by ghibli22
Summary: Chibi!Arthur and Young!France. Arthur doesn't know what to do about the bubbling feeling inside his stomach. But how are a flower and a frog supposed to help! Hmph. Oneshot for now, may be multichaptered later if response is good.
1. Chapter 1

The weather in France was pleasantly warm, clear blue skies and comforting summer breezes hushing through the grasses. But despite the temperatures, that didn't keep Arthur from pulling his evergreen cloak closer around his, admittedly, small shoulders as he walked down a long dirt road. In his hand he clutched a single white lily.

Arthur knew that Francis' house was at the end of the road. He knew that he hated the Frenchman's existence after that horrible haircut that nullified all of his hard work within the few strokes of his scissors. Self-consciously he put a hand to his head, tugging at the choppy locks that refused to lie flat. A scowl, one that his face would grow accustomed to wearing, crossed his features as he came to the crest of a hill and looked down into the valley. Francis' house was just in view, gaudy red roses visible even from so far away. For a moment Arthur considered turning back. But looking at the flower in his hand he took a deep breath and continued his trek.

Because he knew that house belonged to Francis. And he knew that he was supposed to detest Francis to any and all extent.

But he also knew that he hadn't been able to get the frog's face out of his head ever since the day of the haircut.

"Hey frog face!" he called past the gate, not wanting to venture farther at the moment, "Are you home?"

"Well if it isn't le petit Angleterre. What are you doing in this lovely land?"

Jumping he hid the flower behind his back and looked up into the tree where Francis was lounging, "You bastard! What are you doing in a tree?"

"What? Cannot one appreciate the beauty of nature?" Francis replied, smirking down at him.

"Well I don't care what you're doing! Get down here!" he demanded.

Francis laughed, "I will when I feel like it. How's the haircut?"

Face flushing Arthur pulled the hood over his head, hiding his hair from view, "You damn French frog!"

"Now don't be like that, Angleterre," swinging down from the tree

Francis landed lightly on his feet, walking over and flipping the hood back again, "I cannot see your adorable face if you do that~"

His cheeks bright red he glared at Francis, "Shut up."

"But why should I-"

"I said shut up!" And with that he shoved the flower into his face.

Francis took it gingerly in his fingers, azure eyes widening. Arthur looked away, crossing his arms over his chest and biting his lower lip.

"Angleterre... What-"

"Shut up! Sodding bastard! Git! Bloody wanker!"

"Francis, on a good day," the Frenchman replied with a smirk.

"Well maybe I just don't think you deserve to have a proper name!" And with that he turned on his heel, stomping down the path again, "I'm leaving!"

"Arthur, hold on," Francis caught up to him easily, putting a hand on his shoulder and crouching down, the hem of his tunic swishing around his ankles, "You must have given this to me for a reason, oui?"

"I-I-! Maybe!"

"It is quite a lovely flower," he twirled the stem between long fingers, "Don't I get to know why I am to receive such a lovely gift?"

Arthur crossed his arms again, frowning at him, "No."

"Please?"

"No!"

"Pretty please, Arthur?"

He chewed over his lips, thinking, "... My stomach hurts."

"Quoi?"

And then it all came out, like a river that had burst its banks, "My stomach feels all funny when I'm around you! Like something is bubbling up! And my face gets all hot sometimes and my chest hurts and it only happens when I'm around you or think of you-not that I think of you much so don't get any ideas! So I must have caught some kind of stupid froggy disease! And when I asked one of the maids about it she said that giving the person it happened around a present would make it better so here I am! Okay?" With a huff he plopped down on the road, tucking his knees under his chin and curling up, "But my stomach still feels all bubbly so I don't know why I even bothered!"

Throughout his rant, Francis had remained silent, just watching him. After a few moments of not a sound between them Arthur looked up, impressive brows knitting together, "Aren't you going to say anything? This is obviously all your fault after-!"

Francis had leaned forward, cutting off his voice and sealing the two young pairs of lips together. The exchange was brief, nothing more than a press of skin against skin, but it was still enough to render the young boy speechless, the breath stolen from his chest. Instantly his face went red, "Wh-wh-what was that?"

"Hm..." Francis replied, a smile flitting over his mouth, "Let's call it... A promise, Angleterre."

"A promise of what? You bloody kissed me!"

Once again Francis' laughter filled the air, "Maybe I'll tell you when you're older. And a bit more mature~"

"I'm mature!" He leapt to his feet, coming up to his full height. Unfortunately it didn't have the effect he was hoping as he only came up to the Frenchman's waist. Damn frog, "Tell me now!"

Francis only shook his head, grinning, "When you're older, Arthur. Be patient, mon petit. Now," a hand was offered to him, inviting, "Come inside and have some lunch? You must be starving after coming such a long way."

Arthur stuck his lip out, taking his hand despite the bubbling feeling that rose up again. That maid was going to pay for lying to him, "Fine. But if you try to poison me with your frog food I'll… I'll never come here again!"

"With a threat like that I wouldn't dare," Francis chuckled, leading them inside.

While Francis puttered around the kitchen collecting bread and cheese for their meal, Arthur watched him from the table, head in his hands, when a brilliant idea came to him in a flash, "Hey frog! If I guess what the promise is you'll have to tell me, right?"

Setting two plates on the table Francis sat down as well, nodding, "Oui, I supposed I would have to."

Arthur smirked, popping a grape into his mouth. He really had the upper hand now! "Is it a promise to never visit me again?"

"Non."

"A promise to… give me anything I want from now on?"

A shake of his head, "Non."

Arthur frowned, thinking, "A promise to... Um... Does it have anything to do with the bubbling feeling in my stomach?"

At this Francis simply smiled, popping a grape from the centerpiece into his mouth, "Perhaps, Angleterre. Perhaps."

* * *

_Summer is just around the corner thank god! But I've still got so many tests... _

_Anywho, I hope someone out there likes this. If I get enough reviews I might make it longer. And for anyone who cares, my other FrUk fic _Crashing Down_ is on a hopefully temporary hiatus. My inspiration crawled into a hole once AP testing prep started and has refused to come out ever since. I imagine that it has a life-time supply of Easy-Mac in there so who knows how long it will be until it pokes its head back out and tells me that winter is ending early this year._


	2. Chapter 2

_Obviously the continuation! Heres a revised summery:_

_Ever since Arthur was little he's had this bubbling feeling in his stomach around Francis. And for the longest time he's had no idea why. But everything seems to revolve around one promise, sealed with a kiss, and held in his heart. One stupid, goddamn promise. But is he the only one who'll remember it? Throughout the years, a tale of a promise, broken and kept, of a frog, an English man, and possibly, just possibly, love?_

_I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**1431**

Arthur drummed his fingers against the wood of his desk. One looses their patience in the middle of a war, he supposed. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. He could do with some sleep. But he couldn't, not yet. He was waiting for someone, and it wouldn't do for a gentleman to fall asleep while waiting for a guest.

Even if that guest was the very frog he was fighting against. And he was late.

Grimacing he leaned back, regarding with a glare the vase of lilies sitting on the corner of his work area. Why he even asked for them he didn't know. After all he absolutely hated, detested, loathed-

_Its because _he_ likes them_, the voice in his head quipped, smirk evident in every intonation. Arthur shoved it back, reaching forward with every intent of chucking the guilty things out the window, before a knock at the door made him flinch back. He stood quickly, brushing off his coat and straightening the sleeves, "Enter."

A servant walked in, bowing to him, "A Francis Bonnefoy here to see you, sir."

He nodded, moving to stand in front of his desk, "Thank you. Send him in."

The man bowed again and stepped out, and a few seconds later Francis strode in, "You're late, frog."

Francis threw him a glare, sitting in one of the armchairs, "Excuse-moi if my transportation was slow. In case you've forgotten, we're in the middle of a war."

He was dressed, as always, impeccably, despite the hardships they had both been facing, and Arthur couldn't help run his eyes up and down his form. Blue fabric flowing over his chest and down to his knees, silver stitching and buttons accenting his collar and waist, sleeves flowing around his hands and-

_Snap out of it!_ Arthur shook his head, walking to the window. Stupid frog, probably messing with his head on purpose, that was it, "A war you started, arse."

There was a sigh from behind him, and he could just image, he could feel Francis rolling his eyes, "If you're planning some sort of monologue to inform me of my sins I assure you it will fall on deaf ears."

Placing a scowl on his face he turned back around to face him, arms crossed over his chest. _Focus on his flaws…_ His lip twitched into the briefest of smiles- the smudge of dirt he missed behind his ear, the tattered state of the ribbon keeping his hair back, the bandages around his usually perfect hands- before falling off his face as his stomach calmed down, "You're the one who asked for this meeting, not me. Now what the hell do you want?"

Francis stood once more, placing his hands on the back of the chair he was previously occupying, "I'm here, because I want you to give her back to me."

A twinge of something pulled at his chest. He ignored it, settling down behind his desk. It was always the best to be in control. To show that you were so confident as to sit with your enemy in the room, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play games, Arthur!" Francis' hands slapped the wood, the vase trembling from the impact, "She's locked in your cells!"

Eyes widening slightly, Arthur didn't back down, "And let's say I do have this little champion of yours. Why on earth would I release her to you?"

"She's a child!"

"A child in the middle of war! This is our battle, and a few humans dying is the way of things!"

A hand rushed forward, grabbing his shirt and yanking him up. It all happened so fast, it took him a few moments to realize that it was Francis' slender fingers gripping his clothes with such strength. His heart was racing, a pulsing beat in his ears. Yet his face remained cool and calm, not one hint of his shock breaking through, "Is this how you always ask people for favors? I didn't realize that France was still a place for barbarians!"

A moment passed. Two. And finally Francis released his grip, pulling away, "You've grown well, Angleterre. Perhaps a bit to well. But you are still so much of a child."

He pulled his clothes down and brushed out the wrinkles, scowling at him, "I'm enough of a man to have you here, begging for my help."

"Then I suppose I can fall no farther," Francis dusted off his own clothes, "I should have known that this trip would be fruitless. I'll see you on the battlefield."

Arthur gaped at his back, "F-Francis!"

The Frenchman turned, eyebrows raised, "Oui, Angleterre?"

"I…" he swallowed, throat suddenly dry, "That promise, huh? What was it?"

Francis looked confused for a moment, "Promise…?"

"The promise! You know, when… when we were kids…"

A spark of realization flashed behind his blue eyes, fingers tightening around the door, "Ah. Well it seems… it seems I've broken it, Arthur."

This time Arthur couldn't help his fingers from tightening into a fist as a jolt scorched through his system, "Broken it? Well could you at least tell me what it is?"

He sighed, "Well if you don't know by now…"

"Sod it all and tell me!"

Francis looked at him, eyes full of sadness too old for what appeared to be such a young body, "A promise to be lovers, Angleterre."

The world was crashing around him, bits and pieces of the real world coming apart in sheets. _Lovers…_ The world echoed in his head, over and over, back and forth. His stomach leaped into his throat, making it hard to breathe. It was too hot, his blood had gone cold, "Why-why would I e-even want to be l-lovers with a frog like you?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be! I hate you, obviously!"

Francis smiled at him, sadly, "Still. I broke my promise, and for that I'm sorry."

He turned to leave again, but froze at his next words, "Its that girl, isn't it? The one we have in our cells."

Voice no more then a whisper, Francis answered, "Oui."

"… I'll see what I can do."

"Arthur-"

"Not a word, not one word. Get out of my sight."

Francis bowed low, "Thank you, Arthur…" And with a swish of his coat he was gone.

Arthur stood there for a long time, feeling empty. Not that it mattered, not that he cared… Who was that bastard frog to think that he would ever-? He started to pace. He was not, he did not have any feelings for that man but hate, hate, hate! Hate and loathing! And he- and he…!

As if by their own violation his hands darted out, grabbing the vase of lilies. A few seconds later it smashed against the wall, the flowers falling to the floor. Broken and crushed among the shattered pieces. White petals detached from their hearts.

"Guard!" striding out into the hall he looked around, fists shaking at his sides as he waited for one of the many nameless lackeys to answer his call. As soon as one of them came up he grabbed his arm, eyes in flames, "Tell his lordship at once that I want a trial for that girl! As soon as possible!"

"Y-y-yes sir! At once!"

Before the man ran off he grabbed his arm again, pulling him back, "And tell him to be sure she's found guilty! I want that witch to burn!"

* * *

_Edit: Not the last chapter!_


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry its taken so long to update. I've been away with no internet access . But its here now :) I'm not too happy with it but at least you get to read it

* * *

**1781**

The rain fell hard across his shoulders and onto the muddy ground below. His hands sunk deep into the dirt, staining brown but he didn't care. It was so much better then red. But all at once it felt as if even the ground was mocking him and he sat up, desperately wiping his hands on his tattered uniform. This New World he had decided to call his own was tuning on him, biting him. He was being attacked from all sides, from the rain and the dirt that caked his hands and Alfred was-

Alfred was gone.

In his frenzied attempt to clean his hands, Arthur didn't hear the sound of boots squelching in the mud, coming closer. He had been the only one on the battlefield for what felt like hours, knowing that no one was coming to retrieve him. It wasn't until the owner of the boots was a few feet away that he froze, hearing only the rain and the sound of the second thing alive on the field.

"Arthur."

Clambering to his feet he whirled on the intruder, drawing his sword and pointing it straight at Francis' heart. An eye for an eye, "This is your fault!" he screamed, fingers shaking around the hilt from the cold of the rain and only that, as he would later try to convince himself, "You did this!"

Francis regarded him, features expressionless and eyes calm. The Frenchman was drenched just as he was, the heavy fabric of the uniform clinging to his limbs like tar, "He was going to leave, Angleterre. You couldn't have kept him."

"I could have bloody well tried!" Dropping the sword he charged, pushing them both down into the mud. He was practically on top of him and still Francis didn't react, serving only to enrage him more as his blood pounded through his veins, the sound of marching soldiers retreating. Arthur grabbed the man's shirt, shaking him, eyes full of enough raw emotion to make up for Francis' lack, "If you hadn't intervened he would still be mine! He's slipped through my fingers and its all your fault!"

"He would have left."

"Stop saying that!" Swinging his arm back he threw a hard punch to Francis' cheek, sending his head jerking sideways into the dirt. It was the first time he'd been able to actually get to Francis this whole war and he'd be dammed if he was going to waste it, "I could still be there for him if you had just stayed out of it! He's going to need me and he just doesn't realize it yet! He's still a kid compared to me!"

"And yet he's beat you. The great British Empire," Francis said, looking back up at him, face covered in filth and drops of rain falling onto his face from where they dripped off his hair.

"Only because you-"

Before he could even finish Francis jerked up, grabbing his shoulders and flipping them so quickly he barely had time to react before he found Francis looming over him instead. Now his blue eyes were alight, burning down into his own, "You are a blind fool, Arthur!"

"Excuse me?"

"He's been growing away from you for years! And as he tried to figure things out on his own you tightened your grip which only made him want to leave you more!"

"No! That's not…!" He shook his head. This wasn't because of him. All he wanted… All he wanted was that feeling again. The feeling that someone cared. The feeling that Francis had torn away so long ago, "Its your fault!"

Francis leaned down even closer, hissing, "I was never going to join the war!"

Arthur stopped struggling, looking up at Francis, "What?"

"I was going to leave you two fools to fight it out for yourselves. But then I took a moment, and I thought about it," Francis bent by his ear, whispering through the rain, "We could have been equals, and you took my precious Matthew away. You took him away and yet still called on me to fix his food and bruised knees and bad dreams. But none of this moment is for my sweet Matthew. This is for her."

His eyes widened, knowing at once what he meant. Ignoring the jolt that shot through his system at the very mention of her he arched his back, trying to escape Francis' hold, "What does that have to do with anything? That was over three hundred years ago!"

"Oui. And it still aches like a thorn in my side. So tell me, Arthur. How could I pass up the opportunity to cause you the same pain?"

Suddenly the weight on top of him was gone as Francis stood, wiping the hair out of his face. Arthur shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, "You bastard!"

The glare he received was like ice, "You betrayed me, cher."

"You betrayed me f-first!" he yelled at him, wincing at how his voice cracked, "This isn't revenge, this is making the wound deeper!"

Francis strode closer, grabbing his chin between ice cold fingers, "How could I betray you, Arthur, when you have assured me time and time again that I am the thing you hate most? Well?"

Arthur gaped at him, mouth open and at a loss for words, "I-I… I…" he jerked his chin free, "I don't need to explain anything at all to you! I'm the bloody British Empire!"

"If you say so, Angleterre," Francis wiped the dirt and water from his face. For a moment, as he stared at the skin still so perfect even after the turmoil of their lives, Arthur knew he didn't want things to end like this. He didn't want their parting words to be ones of hatred again.

And then the moment is gone.

"I do say so, you miserable frog! I've still got the rest of the world under my thumb! One confused colony and one surrendering arse that likes to mouth off aren't going to change that!"

Once again Francis gave him that look, that cold, tortured look of someone hardened against the world. Arthur imagined he must look the same by now. It was what life did to you, apparently. If he tries, below the filth and the anger, he can almost see the eyes of the first Francis, the one that wore girly clothes and would tease him before holding him. And again he wants those moments back, to hold them close and never let go. If only the scars didn't run so deep.

"If you say so, Angleterre."

Francis walked off the battlefield. And Arthur was alone again.

XXXXXXXXX

**1867**

Arthur frowned deeply, shuffling papers on his desk. The world had grown to be a very costly place, especially if he were to continue living in the life he was accustomed to. But he was sure he could find a way to maintain it all.

A hesitant knocking at the door made him look up, quickly ordering everything in his workspace, "Come in."

"U-um…" A pale hand curled around the door, followed by half of a head, "Arthur…? I-If you're not to busy…"

A smile spread across his face. Finally a distraction, "Of course, Matthew. Come in, please."

The Canadian takes a step inside, working his lip with his teeth and running his hands together. Even his clothes seem nervous, all rumpled and un-tucked and-

As his eyes fell on the white lily in Matthew's breast pocket he froze, shoulders stiffening, "Matthew? What's…"

"O-Oh, this?" he looked down, blushing a little, "I-I know that you don't really like Papa right now but he sent some over the other day a-and I just thought that they looked so nice…"

At that moment Arthur knew that it was all over. The flower could have meant next to nothing but yet somehow he knew. By the end of the meeting Matthew had his independence. He doesn't tell Francis.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: sorry for the long wait. Writers block and School do not mix well... But here's an extra long chapter to cheer things up!**

* * *

**1940**

Arthur's fingers ghosted over fair skin, the surface beaded with sweat as the body below him fought. Francis' eyes were closed, as they had been for the past few days despite the heavy breathing and sudden jerks he was prone to give. Arthur sighed closing his own eyes for a moment and recalling for the hundredth, thousandth time the events that had brought the idiotic, desperate Frenchman under his… care.

_"Arthur, this is a… delicate situation."_

_ The personification of the United Kingdom scoffed as they walked down the hallway, "Delicate, Winston? We're in a war. There's no need to warn me of 'delicate situations' any more."_

_ His Prime Minister frowned, "I realize, completely, but what I mean is delicate for you, specifically."_

_ Frowning, Arthur glanced at him, "What do you mean by that?"_

_ "You'll see when we get there."_

_ They kept moving for only a minute or two more, eventually stopping in front of what was as close to a multi-purpose room as you could get in the underground tunnels below London. There had been a couple of meetings in there, and Arthur had even used the place to grab a quick nap once or twice. He believed it was being used for storage at the moment. Nonetheless he reached forward, twisting the knob and stepping in._

_ The room was empty, save for a curtain hung haphazardly across half the room. Without further prompting from Churchill he crossed the floor, yanking back the curtain._

"You gave me a right bloody shock, frog…" he mumbled, reaching down and grabbing a cloth that had been soaking, placing it over Francis' forehead, "You and that Charles of yours."

_ The man stood immediately, addressing him and Chuchill behind. But his eyes were glued to Francis' figure, splayed across the bed, cheeks tinged pink and looking… not quite good._

_ "What happened?" he demanded, whirling around to face the men again. De Gaulle cleared his throat, speaking in accented English._

_ "You know of the attack on Paris… non?"_

_ His voice was strained, tired, looking like the nation lying before their eyes. Arthur scowled, "Of course I do. Hard not to notice all of your people pouring in from the Channel."_

_ Churchill gave him a grunt of disapproval, which was ignored by de Gaulle, "He's been like this since Paris was overrun. Nothing will wake him."_

"'Then why'd you bring him here?' I asked. It was a logical thing to do, you know. And you know what they told me?"

_"Please. You are the only one we, the only one he has left."_

Arthur sighed again, leaning back and running a hand through his hair, "Under normal circumstances I'd tell him to shove it. Go get Gilbert or Antonio to take care of your sorry arse. But," he let out a breath, a puff of air that reminded him of exactly how long he had gone without a cigarette, "these aren't normal times, are they?"

Francis gave no reply, staying as still and silent as ever. Shaking his head he reached over to the side table and flipped on the radio. A women's voice filled the small space, giving him some much needed background noise. Reaching into the drawer he pulled out a small piece of wood he'd been working on for the past few days, just something to keep his hands busy, and, taking out his pocket knife, began to whittle away at it.

He wasn't exactly sure how long he sat there carving. By the time someone came to fetch him, the German planes were coming and he had no time to be sitting around doing nothing, the woman on the radio was gone, replaced by jazz full of trumpets and piano. Placing his knife and wood on the table he stood, following the soldier out into the corridor.

They weren't halfway down the hall before he felt a scorching pain burying into his chest, and his world went black.

XXXXX

When Arthur finally came to, all he could register the hot flare of _hurt_ on his chest covered by something cold. A groan escaped from his lips before he opened his eyes, gaze refusing to focus on anything.

"Sir! He's awake!"

He closed his eyes again. The last thing he needed was some girl's shrill little voice in his-

"Well, it's about time. Arthur, you in there?"

His eyes slid open again, "Winston...?"

The man smiled, "That's my boy. Tough till the end like the rest of us."

Arthur moved to sit up, "What ha-" He fell back with a barely contained cry, putting a hand over his chest. Moving was apparently not the nest idea at the moment, "_Shit…_"

"Quite right," Churchill supplied, pulling up a chair and sitting heavily in it, "Couldn't think of a better way to describe the situation myself."

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, "What happened?"

The voice of his Prime Minister was grave, "We were hit, Arthur. Bombed. Hard by the Germans."

Eyes widening he looking at him, aghast, "H-how many? Where?"

"Don't know how may yet. Too early to tell. And I don't think I need to tell you where."

As fast as he could without blacking out again Arthur sat up, tearing the ice and then the bandages off his chest. One look at the burn covering his skin, red veins crawling across it like a spider's web, was all the information he needed.

Right at the heart. Just like Francis.

London.

XXXXX

The next time he woke from a bombing, he found he couldn't quite get his bearings. It was like the whole world had gone into soft focus, and all he could make out through the pain was the white of the walls surrounding him. As he slowly came too he began to be more aware of certain details. For starters that he was in an actual bed, as opposed to the cot that was hurriedly prepared for him last time. His fingers stretched along the cool sheets, searching for anything that would tell him more. The second thing he noticed was the sound of the radio in the background, his radio. And the third thing he noticed was something humming along.

Arthur forced his eyes to focus, turning his head to look for the source. Once they landed on their target he stopped, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

"Fr-Francis?"

It didn't take him long to realize that their positions had been completely reversed, with him in the bed that Francis had formerly been occupying and the other sitting in his accustomed chair. But the Frenchman didn't look at all like he should be out of bed or even awake for that matter. His skin was still pasty and bruised, eyes a bit duller then he would have felt comfortable seeing, hair limp against his face. But despite all that when he turned to look there was a soft smile on his face, "Bonjour, Arthur. Welcome back."

"I-I… What are you doing with my carving?"

It wasn't really what he meant to say. There were a million things that could have been better. But nonetheless, Francis was holding the piece of wood he'd been working on in his long fingers.

Francis gave a soft chuckle, "Finishing it for you. Or at least just adding some details. I never would have thought that you-"

"Don't," Arthur cut him off, not meeting his eye. Francis gazed at him for a minute or two, then slowly set the wood and tool down.

"Seems like we're both in pretty bad shape, Angleterre. Wouldn't you say?"

"Nonsense. I'll be fine," Yet he didn't feel the need to validate his statement with movement. Even if he did feel maybe the tiniest bit of guilt for taking his bed.

"Of course we'll be fine, Arthur. We'll always be 'fine' no matter what happens. Wars will end, time will move forward. Wounds will heal, leaving nothing more then outlines on our skin. You and I should know that better then anyone by now. But for now, in this moment, neither of us are exactly 'fine'."

For a while Arthur didn't answer. The pain in his chest throbbed with the fires and the debris around his capital. Finally, softly, he said, "And what about you? Why aren't you still unconscious, frog?"

The frog bit was unnecessary but both of them needed something _normal_, anything. Francis smiled softly at the gesture, albeit a tad sadly.

"How could I possibly stay asleep, when you were screaming so loudly?"

"What? So you're saying it's my fault that-!"

His eyes went wide, silenced as Francis pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He pulled back a moment later. Maybe a moment too soon, "Non, I'm not saying that you woke me up. I'm saying that I woke up because you needed someone.

"I know that we've hated each other for centuries and probably part of us still does, but this is war. And again we're here on the same side, and we need to admit that if we're not together then we'll fail. All I'm saying is for now, let us put aside our differences for the sake of a greater enemy. And then when this is all over you can push me into the Thames as payback, oui?" Francis smiled again, not sad this time but just… gentle. Arthur looked away.

"… I stole your bed."

"I wouldn't be opposed to sharing."

As carefully as he could, the fire in his chest still raging, he moved to the side. Francis stood on shaking legs, slipping in next to him. They rearranged themselves on the tiny bed so that each was in the least amount of pain. Arthur noticed how Francis' skin was still warm to the touch and clammy despite his smile, and he was sure that Francis noticed the warmth radiating from his own wound.

Yet somehow, the pain seemed to be dulled for a moment as he focused on all the places their bodies came into contact. It was easily the first gentle touch they had shared since… well, in a very, very long time. And for a second, just for the briefest flash, they weren't life long enemies anymore: just two wounded soldiers trying to stay alive.

"… Your breath stinks, frog."

"Yours isn't much better, Angleterre."

Soon after they fell asleep. In each other's arms like children again as outside people fought and lived and died. And sitting on the beside table next to a pocket knife and a glass of water, a small lily carved out of wood, rough edges smoothed out so the shape flowed like the plant it depicted.

And underneath one of the petals, there was a tiny inscription containing six words that would never be seen until years and years later (but that's a different story).

_Mon coeur. Ma promesse. Pour toujours. _

My heart. My promise. Forever.


End file.
